


The Sun Will Rise

by bananas_wtf



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, No Smut, Walkers, Zombies, a little violence, but not yet sorry, but nothing hardcore because gross, oh the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:00:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananas_wtf/pseuds/bananas_wtf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and OFC Caitlyn find themselves in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. Sam and Cas have gone missing. Supernatural characters placed into the world of The Walking Dead. Future appearances by TWD characters. Told from Caitlyn's POV. I'm taking some liberties with the SPN timeline. Sort of Post Season 8. Cas is human, Sam is just Sam (no Gadreel).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Day One  
11:30 AM

I’m tired. My eyes don’t want to open. I leave them closed. Breathing feels like too much work, but my body seems insistent. There’s a soft shuffling noise to my left. Somewhere in the fog, I know that it’s him. I reach for him, but the command doesn’t get from my brain to my hand. I say his name, but the words don’t arrive at my lips. There’s a dull throbbing feeling in my chest that I can’t place. If things were clearer, if there were less fog, I might call the sensation pain. 

Yes, I think. This is definitely pain. 

I must have convinced my body to move, because I feel his hand on my forehead. It’s warm and gentle. Soft “shush”ing sounds float into my head, and I know they must have come from his mouth. 

The fog is tugging at my consciousness again, and it’s too much effort to struggle. 

 

Day One  
4:50 PM

This time when the fog lessens enough to let me out, I open my eyes. The fog might have cleared slightly, but all it has done is create more room for the dull throb of pain to manifest into a hot searing stab. I manage a small, pitiful whine. There’s movement, again on my left, but it’s different from before. 

I shift my eyes from the ceiling to the figure next to the bed. His back is to me, and he looks…off. I call his name, but nothing more than a croaked whisper leaves my throat. 

“Hold on, hold on,” he says roughly, but it’s quiet and urgent. I hear water splashing, and suddenly the desert in my throat comes into raging focus. I’m sure I’m pleading desperately, but there are only strangled gasps in the room. 

There’s a hand on my chin, unfamiliar and firm, and finally something sweet and cold and wet glides over my tongue. The glory of that feeling is almost enough to distract from the heat radiating in molten waves through my chest. 

“Slow, take it easy, it ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he reassures me. I furrow my brow at the sound of his voice, that wrong voice full of gruff and gravel, but my confusion isn’t enough to lessen my want for more water. I try to drink slowly, careful sips instead of frantic gulps. It’s not quite as satisfying, but eventually the sand subsides.

I take a cautious breath, then croak out his name again. “Sam.”

“Shh,” that dishonest voice whispers. 

There’s more shuffling, and I feel a hand on my arm. A tiny sharp bite. Then there’s warmth, flowing up towards my head. I can feel the fog closing in again.

 

Day One  
10:45 PM

There’s a small lamp on the table next to me. The light it casts doesn’t reach the corners of the room, where shadows round the edges. Something pulls at my memory.

“If you have to leave the room, turn the bedside lamp on. Don’t let her wake up in the dark.”

I smile at that, although I’m sure it looks more like a grimace. Maybe it’s both. He had left that instruction because the nightmare always started with the cold and the dark. Demons with grabbing hands and ragged claws raking the flesh from my body. I had screamed when it was happening, and I still scream now when the terror of the darkness gets to be too much and it drags me back to the place where he had found me. Sometimes the warmth of his body beside mine is enough to diminish the fear. When he leaves on a case, he takes his warmth with him. So he leaves the light on. 

He left that instruction because…he had left, with his soft voice and careful hands. 

I struggle to sit up, ignoring the agony in my chest. I want to get out of this bed. I want to find him. He can’t be far, somewhere in the bunker. I can manage those few steps to the common room. Yes.

There’s a sigh from the door, and the heavy footsteps tip me off that it’s not him. 

“Lay back down,” comes the coarse command. “You’re gonna rip out stitches, and I’m gonna have to put ‘em back. Unless you want me jabbin’ a needle and thread through you, I suggest you chill.”

I drop back down the few inches I had managed to raise my head. I’m not wearing a shirt, but I’m covered, my chest wrapped in bandages. There’s a small spot of blood just off-center. I finally turn to look at the man addressing me like I’m a small child, and accept that it’s not him.

“Sam,” I say quietly. He understands it as the question it is.

“Sam,” Dean answers, just as quietly, sitting in the chair to my right, “went out to get some more drugs. We didn’t have much to start, and with you hurt like this, we didn’t have a choice.”

“Sam. Went. Out,” I reply slowly, testing the words. He nods. 

“Out…there,” I choke, turning away from his tired green eyes.

Dean clenches his jaw. “He left about noon. Been gone almost 11 hours. Shoulda been back in 3.”

There’s a stab of pain through my chest, and I turn scared eyes back to him. I carefully raise my hand as much as I can, pointing to the bandage wrapped around me.

“Did they…am I…oh god,” I slap my hand over my mouth, hoping to stem the wave of nausea rolling over me. 

“No,” Dean answers quickly. “You got stabbed on our food run this morning.”

A frantic, cackling laugh comes out of my mouth. It sends razors through my middle, but I can’t stop it. When I finally stop giggling like a madwoman, and Dean gets me more water, I take a wary breath. 

“Not bitten,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Not bitten,” he repeats.

“Just stabbed. You know, no big deal.” I fight the giggles down. 

He rests his hand on my arm, stilling me. I just stare at it.

“I wouldn’t move around too much,” he warns wearily. “We’re out of meds.”

 

Day Two  
3:20 AM

I can’t sleep. There are no more drugs in my system to construct a haze to pull me down. There are no more drugs, period. Sam isn’t back yet. 

I try to sit up again, inching myself slowly, scooting the pillow up behind me as I go. The wound in my chest gives a sharp throb, then relaxes into a dull pulsing ache.  
I manage to push myself into a halfway upright position and breathe out a sigh. I close my eyes, sending myself back to yesterday morning. 

_We had set off early, it couldn’t have been later than five, Dean, Cas, myself. Sam had stayed behind._

_We had needed supplies: food, mostly. Gas, if we could find it (for the Impala; the generator for the bunker seems to be running on some sort of power supply of its own. Dean has taken to calling it “Supernatural Fusion.” Cas insists that doesn’t exist. Sam and I stay out of it.)._

_We had driven about 15 minutes, until 150 hit Highway 281, then parked the Impala in a mostly hidden grove off a driveway of a boarded up house. It was long empty. We’d sacked the place three weeks ago, but apparently whoever had been living there had known enough to take whatever canned goods they had in their pantry before they fled for the hills._

_A quick jog a mile and a half further, and we had come across a small grocery store that seemed (mostly) intact. The glass in the automatic doors was busted out, and I had climbed through first. The shelves of the canned food aisle were bare, but we found a few boxes of cereal and crackers scattered through the others._

_“Someone’s clearly been through here already,” Dean had grumbled, toeing his boot through the junk strewn about the floor. “Cas, stay here with Caitlyn, I’m gonna go check the back.”_

_He’d been gone about 3 minutes when we had heard a triumphant shout. Cas had beamed at me, and headed off to help Dean with whatever it was he had discovered. I had turned around to pick up the bag I had set at my feet to fill with Lucky Charms, and had found myself with a very large, very unfriendly knife in my face._

_“Gimme the bag,” the guy had growled. I had apparently had a large dose of Stupid for breakfast, because I clutched my treasures closer to me and took a step back. “I said gimme the bag, you dumb bitch!”_

_He had lunged at me, and as I tried to take another step back, I stumbled over an Oreo display that had been tossed aside. I landed on my back, the wind going out of my lungs. The knife-wielder fell on top of me, one hand reaching between us for my bag. I had opened my mouth to shout for help, but couldn’t get any sound to come out._

_The boys must have heard the struggle from the back, because they had come running out, Dean gun-first. The guy with the knife hadn’t wasted any time, and had jumped up and ran like hell. Dean had followed him out the door, but my eyes were on Cas as he knelt down beside me, his focus on the knife sticking out of my chest._

_There had been a muffled pop from outside, and Dean had come running back inside, hitting his knees beside Cas._

_“Did you get him?” I had asked. Dean had nodded grimly, shoving an arm under my shoulders. “Cas, bags, we gotta go, now.”_

I open my eyes when I hear someone come in: Dean, with a small tray of what I hope is something delicious. There’s a small bowl, and something in it is steaming. A plate next to it holds what I am certain is a grilled cheese sandwich. My stomach growls. 

Dean holds the bowl out to me, his face a question as to whether or not I can manage to feed myself. I take it, and am happy to find what appears to be chicken noodle soup, and even some crackers. 

“You can thank Stabby for that,” Dean said casually, nodding at the bowl. I raise my eyebrows as I blow on a spoonful. “Took it out of his pack.” 

I eye the sandwich. It is definitely grilled, and it is definitely oozing cheese. He takes a huge bite, and smiles at me. “That too,” he says, mouth full. “Velveeta. Never goes bad.”

He must notice the sadness on my face as I realize the sandwich is not for me, and he swallows before saying, “Maybe lunch.”

I nod, and dive into my soup.


	2. Chapter 2

Day Two  
7:00 AM

I can’t lay here anymore. Sleep had come in fits and small respites, but without the soft cushion of something to lessen the pain, I can’t stay down for long. 

I shift myself back, scooting so I’m almost in a full sitting position. I try to keep my breaths even, not to exert myself, but it’s difficult. I rest a moment before carefully sliding my legs to the left and letting them hang off the side of the bed. I grit my teeth as I push myself forwards and up, and pray that my legs will hold me. They shake slightly, but I remain on my feet. 

I grab the flannel shirt that’s hanging off one side of the chair next to the bed and slip my arms into the sleeves. I hold the collar to my face, inhaling deeply. It’s Sam’s. 

Good. Now onwards. It takes me about five minutes to make it to the open doorway, and another ten to travel through the halls to the kitchen. It’s less walking, and more of a sluggish shuffle. 

I probably look like one of those things outside, I think to myself. I find it funny for a moment, until my memory shoots scattered images from yesterday at me. 

_The jostling trek back to the Impala, someone screaming in pain. Is it me? It’s me._  
_Car doors opening, slamming shut, an engine roaring._  
_Tires squealing._  
_Dull thumps that come with a sickening squelching sound._  
_Someone’s shouting, “shit shit shit shit.”_  
_More thumps. More squishing._  
_The car slams to a stop._  
_Shouting._  
_Gunshots._  
_Doors opening._  
_There’s arms around me, half carrying, half dragging._  
_More screaming. It’s me again._  
_More shouting._  
_They’re everywhere. The walkers. At least a dozen that I can see, upside down, over someone’s shoulder._ >  
_They’re still dropping when I lose consciousness. ___

I swallow thickly. They weren’t still out there when Sam had left. Surely it was clear. 

I shuffle my way into the kitchen, intent on tea.

Dean is there, face down on the table where it had slid off his arm, snoring softly. 

I go about my business quietly, assuming he’s spent much of the past 24 hours awake, caring for me in lieu of his brother. 

As the kettle heats over the flame, I try to imagine where Sam is. Dean said he had gone for medical supplies, more drugs. Did he go to the pharmaceutical warehouse in Norton, I wonder. Dean had said three hours, and that would certainly put the warehouse within range. 

I glance at the clock. 7:30. It’s been 24 hours since we had left on our food run. 19 and a half since Sam and Cas had gone for more medical supplies. 

The kettle screeches. I grab it quickly, hissing at the sting under my bandages. I look over my shoulder, checking to see if the noise has woken Dean. He fidgets, but remains asleep, drooling a bit on his hand. 

I fill my mug with the hot water, drowning the black tea bag, and settle into a chair across from Sleeping Beauty. I sip it carefully and watch the different emotions pass over his face as he dreams. 

 

Day Two  
2:00 PM

After my tea, I had made my way to the library, planning to find Sam’s laptop and attempt to connect to the outside world. Having given what could be considered a gung-ho try of about five minutes of trying to connect to the internet, I finally had come to the realization that it just wasn’t going to happen. 

Which is how I found myself currently curled up in a comfortable arm chair in a well-lit corner, wrapped in a soft throw, reading a worn copy of “Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland”. 

I glance up as a steaming mug appears on the table next to me. Dean is standing there, one arm full of bandages and gauze.

“Those could probably use a change,” he says, nodding towards the bandages on my chest. I look down. The small spot of blood has grown, but only slightly, and dried to a muddy brownish color. 

I contemplate the spot for a moment before turning my eyes back to Dean. He’s just staring at me, perplexed. I look around awkwardly for another minute, and it finally dawns on him.

“Yeah, um, if you wanna just turn around…” he mutters, a blush crawling over his freckles. 

I sigh in relief, standing and turning, sliding my arms out of the flannel as I do so. 

It takes us a few fumbling minutes, but we manage to unwind the dirty dressings. I flinch as the gauze pad pulls away from the skin it has stuck to, courtesy of the dried blood. Dean hands me an alcohol wipe, the kind they use in tattoo shops and those discount accessories stores where untrained professionals pierce the ears of terrified infants. I dab gently at the wound, trying to clean without disturbing the careful stitches there. It’s the first chance I’ve had to examine the wound. There’s a three inch long diagonal gash, starting at the top of my right breast and ending in what looks to be the exact center of my chest.

“Lucky he hit you like he did,” Dean says over my shoulder. 

I start slightly at the sound of his voice in the silence. 

“Top half’s just superficial, only about a half inch deep. Lower part went way deeper. Knicked a rib or your sternum or somethin’. Pulled a piece of bone out of it before it got stitched up.”

I stare down at the innocuous red line down the side of my breast and try to imagine it open, bleeding, ragged. My head starts to spin, and I set my hand on the table next to my tea in an attempt to balance myself. 

“Whoa there,” Dean says, a steadying hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Let’s just get this wrapped back up.”

It takes another ten minutes to get myself wrapped correctly. First, too tight. Then too loose. Back and forth we go. 

“Did you do the stitches?” I ask as I fix a piece of medical tape to the end of the wrap under my left arm.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “Be glad for that.”

I turn back in his direction with a questioning look, slipping the flannel back on.

He throws me a grin. “I’m way better at it.”

I make a face back at him, then sit and try to get resituated in my chair. 

 

Day Two  
4:45 PM

I’m hungry. 

I convinced Dean to make pancakes. I had found a box of that mix where you just add water on our run yesterday. I only had to listen to him whine about the lack of bacon for fifteen minutes before he shut up and got to work. 

So now I sit at the small kitchen table, waiting patiently while my stomach protests reasonable cooking times. 

“I tried the internet today,” I mention casually, which earns me a grunt from the area of the stove. 

“It didn’t work,” I add.

“Sam said it went out on him two nights ago, never came back,” Dean supplies as he slides a plate in front of me. I launch into the stack of cakes, and he yanks them back, appalled. “Heathen!”

I stare at him, mouth agape, fork and knife in hand.

“Syrup?” he asks poignantly.

I swallow calmly, setting my fork and knife down on the table, and carefully reach out to take back my plate. I place it back on the table in front of me, turn to Dean, and say “Syrup makes them soggy.”

He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head and returns to the stove. 

“So it’s getting worse out there,” I mumble through a mouthful of pancake. 

“Seems to be. I figure we had about two weeks from the initial case before the panic started.” He stops, rubbing his tongue across his teeth as he thinks. “Then probably another couple weeks til TV and radio hit the skids. And, rough guess, it’s been about three weeks since that happened. So about two months. I’m actually kinda surprised the internet lasted **that** long.”

“Who do you think was keeping it going?” I ask as he eats.

He shrugs. “No clue. Probably the government.”

I push the rest of my pancakes around the plate as I think. “So they’re probably gone, right? We’re on our own.”

“You saw it out there. No police presence, no military, no civilians. I guess it’s possible they all up and headed to more populated areas, but I doubt it. I mean, we didn’t have this place? I’d have been headed to the most remote spot I could find a long damned time ago.”

I nod, sigh, and offer him what’s left of my breakfast.


	3. Chapter 3

Day Three

It’s been an uneventful day full of the same mundane tasks. 

I make tea.

Dean and I work in tandem to change my bandages. Today we decide that gauze and tape will have to do from tomorrow on. We’re running low on wraps. 

I read in the chair in that well-lit corner. 

Dean pours over lore even though he knows the answers he seeks won’t be there. 

 

Day Four

 

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

 

 

Day Five  
7:30 PM

I’m in my chair again. Four days of planting myself in it have made it mine. I have decided.

I’m lost in the pages, caterpillars that most certainly are on acid, Mad Hatters and a terrifyingly ugly Duchess, when a plate appears under my nose. I grin at the offering, meager though it might be. Tonight’s selection looks to be a choice variety of canned veggies. 

I put the book down on the side table and accept my dinner. Dean sets a mug of tea next to my book, and arranges himself on the floor near my feet with his own plate. 

As I chew quietly on my lima beans, a thought pops into my head. These past few days, I have been Dean’s focus. Am I in pain? Am I hungry? Am I cold? Is the wound healing? And I, as well, have concerned myself with nothing more than my own needs. I feel guilt creep into my face as I realize it’s been five days and not once have I given thought to the man who’s lost not only his brother, but lost Cas as well. 

I clear my throat. “So…how are you?” I venture.

Dean looks up at me through his lashes without raising his head, then back down to his dinner. “Fine,” he grunts.

I sigh heavily and start pushing corn around my plate. “I don’t mean…just…Cas,” I say quietly. 

He stares at the food in his lap, and I can see his jaw working as he clenches it. “I know what you meant,” he answers flatly. 

I bite my lip, regretting having brought it up, then ask, “Did you want to go out and look for them?”

“Can’t,” comes the quiet reply. 

I start to ask why, he cuts me off. “Because they took the Impala, Cait. And I don’t really wanna risk wandering up and down the highway lookin’ for someone that may or may not even be out there.”

I keep my eyes on my plate. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head with a small sigh, “I’m doin’ my best not to think about it. And much as I like to sit here pretendin’ he’s gonna come walkin’ through that door any minute? I think we both know that ain’t likely.”

A tear tracks down my cheek, his words doing nothing more than reminding me that, along with Cas, Sam was out there somewhere. In my head, I’ve managed to create a situation where they’ve joined with another group of survivors, that they’re somewhere warm and safe, with (somewhat) full bellies and a (somewhat) comfortable place to sleep. I know the reality is probably a stark contrast. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I offer softly, getting up and adding his empty plate to my half-full version. He eyes it, and I raise my eyebrows in question. He shakes his head and stands up. 

“It’s fine,” he assures. “Gonna go research.” 

I leave him in the library, and head to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

 

Day 6  
3:18 AM

I’m screaming. At least, I’m trying to. No sound gets past my lips, just a dry rush of air. It scorches my throat. 

There are hands, blackened, decrepit, dagger tipped fingers that dig into the meat of my thighs, my stomach, my back. 

Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I know that I’m dreaming, that these things cannot actually hurt me. But this does nothing to alleviate the vicious, ripping pain that my brain insists is there. 

The air reeks of burnt flesh. I gag, twisting violently against the bonds that are holding me, and suddenly a new scent fills my nostrils. 

_Sam_ , I think.

I suck in huge gulps of air, breathing him in. It pulls me up, out of sleep. 

I’m not quite awake when I realize that he’s not actually there. I can feel the soft, warn flannel against the wet skin of my cheek, and I know that if I bury my face in it further, the scent will come back to me. 

I shiver as I lie on my side, pulling my knees up to my chest. I ignore the slight pull of tension from the cut there. 

Dean had told me that when they brought me inside, bleeding, they had put me in my old bedroom, as opposed to Sam’s, where I had taken to spending most of my nights. I’m not sure what had made me stay. Maybe the thought of Sam not being there. 

As I curl the shirt closer around me, I make the decision to move myself back into Sam’s room tomorrow. 

I’m done sleeping for tonight.

 

Day 6  
10:00 AM

“You sleepin’ ok?”

I must look like shit, as that’s the greeting I get as I stand next to the stove in the kitchen, waiting on the kettle.

“You can sleep in his room even if he’s not here, ya know,” he says, sardonically.

I turn and glare at him, but find him smiling, so I soften. “I will. Tonight.”

“Last night bad?”

I nod, shuddering with the memory. It had been almost a year now, since Sam and Dean Winchester had rescued me from Crowley. I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and rather than just kill me, he had chosen to keep me around as some sort of “pet”. A person to torture whenever the urge struck. He’d drag me to hell, have his fun. If he was feeling generous, he’d leave me there for a few days. 

When the boys had found me, I’d been captive just over six months. 

“I’ve got bad news.” Dean’s voice shakes me from my own mind, and I look over at him. “We’ve got about a week’s worth of food left.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “Where are we gonna go?” I ask quietly. 

“Dunno,” comes the answer. “I say we head South, Southeast maybe? I know I sure as hell don’t wanna head North. Snow? No thanks. At least in the warm we don’t have to worry so much about shelter.”

I agree, and try not to let my dread show on my face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback is greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

Day 8  
6:00 AM

The morning air is crisp, and almost a little cool, but there’s a promise that heat will take over as the sun climbs in the sky. 

We had spent all day yesterday preparing to leave the bunker. Dean had decided that waiting until the food ran out was not in our best interest. Better to leave with a small supply and give ourselves time to find more. 

Traveling light seemed to be the most viable option, so I had folded up a couple of pairs of socks and underwear in the bottom of my backpack. My ragged copy of “Alice” made the cut, as well as some simple medical supplies. Alcohol wipes, a few pieces of gauze and tape, a needle and thread. I had neatly folded Sam's flannel and placed it on top of everything. These things nowhere near filled my pack, but that was fine with me. You never knew what you’d find out in the world. 

We had finished the canned food off for breakfast before leaving, and Dean had filled a second bag for him to carry with protein bars, as well as a couple of extra water bottles that we could use to filter water later on. 

We’ve only been walking about a half an hour when Dean holds his hand back to me in a silent “halt”. I don’t question him, holding my breath and straining to hear whatever has caught his attention. The tension in his shoulders slackens as a rabbit hops a few feet ahead of us. 

I poke him in the back with one finger, smirking. He pulls a face and starts forward again. 

We stick to main road, but stay off of it, a few feet concealed in what few trees that line the highway. When we get to the intersection at 36 that runs East/West, Dean turns a forlorn look to the West, the direction that Sam and Cas had surely driven when they headed out. 

I can see the pained indecision on his face, and place a hand gently on his arm. 

“If you want, I won’t argue,” I offer quietly. 

He seems to consider it a moment before softly shaking his head. “If I knew for sure…” he trails off. 

We stand there for a few minutes, eyes fixed westward.

I’ve been living in a world where Sam is OK, convincing myself every day that everything was fine, just some snag in the plan had kept him from returning safely, Cas in tow. But now, staring down this empty, desolate road, I can feel doubt sliding into my stomach. It curls around my insides, inky and black. Tears prick at my eyes, and I fight to keep them at bay. 

Dean turns to look at me, and apparently notices my struggle, because he takes my hand, squeezing it once, firmly, then tugs me along behind him, southward, the morning sun warming our left sides instead of our backs. 

 

Day 9  
2:00 PM

We’ve been moving since 5 AM, when Dean declared that since he couldn’t sleep, neither could I. 

We had found a small subdivision of modest-sized homes just outside of the little town of Beloit, Kansas. Dean had picked the lock, and we had made ourselves at home.   
After scouring the cupboards for anything that might have been left behind, we had settled in with a protein bar each and eaten in companionable silence. 

He hadn’t balked when, fifteen minutes after bedding down in our own respective rooms, I had slipped quietly into his, curling as close to him as I could manage without actually making physical contact. 

It’s cloudy today, the dampness evident in the air. We plod along quietly, following what Dean insists is a fairly southeasterly path. We’ve gone over a week with just each other for company, and conversation has begun to wear thin. 

We pass abandoned cars every once in a while, visible through the trees and brush along the way that we meander through. It’s slower going, uneven ground, tree roots, downed branches, but he feels it’s safer and I don’t argue. 

We’ve just crossed Route 81 when my foot catches on a root and I stumble, catching myself with my hands as I crash to the ground.   
Dean turns back to help me up when I hear it, groaning, shuffling, and close.

I don’t have time to shout a warning, Dean’s already flown into action, a machete pulled from its home against his back. 

I scramble backwards, shoving myself with my feet, while Dean cleanly slices off the Walker’s head. It thuds to the ground, rolling to a stop in front of my sneakers. Its dead eyes are staring at me, its mouth partially torn away, exposing rotting teeth, a tongue mostly gone. I gag. 

I feel myself lifted, and swat at Dean as he picks me up by my backpack. 

"OK?” he asks gruffly, brushing the dirt and dust from my backside. 

“Yeah,” I breathe, calming down. “Just not used to this yet.”

He raises his eyebrows at me, saying “Not something I ever wanna get used to.”

I laugh in agreement, and resituate my bag on my shoulders. “Onward?”

“Onward!” he declares, mock marching his way in front of me. 

 

Day 11  
7:30 AM

I yawn, moving to stretch my arms over my head. I huff in confusion when I meet resistance immediately. I open my eyes and find that Dean has octupused his way over me. He’s on his back, right arm flung across my torso, his legs are contorted at an odd angle, somehow the left one is laying across my shins.

“Oh my god,” I grumble, shoving at him, “get off.”

He groans an inappropriate response as he wakes, before suddenly jumping completely out of the bed.

I laugh. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand through his bed-wrecked hair. 

“I’ll live,” I sigh overdramatically. “Next time you lose an arm.”

It takes only a few minutes to get our things packed up. Dean takes the time to lock the door behind us. I give him a strange look, and he shrugs.

As we exit the town limits of Wamego, we pass a sign.

“40 miles to Topeka,” he states. “We won’t make it that far today, though. Tomorrow night, if we make good time, don’t run into too much trouble.”

“Do you think there’s others there? Survivors, I mean?”

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth drawing down. “Hard to say. I’m kind of surprised we haven’t come across anyone yet.” 

We don’t come across anyone. 

We’re just passing an abandoned mini-van with its sliding rear door open when Dean spots a small herd of Walkers ahead of us. 

He motions to me to be quiet, then takes my hand and leads me as fast as he dares out of the cover of what few trees there are here. We slink, hunched down, behind the mini-van, and slide silently alongside it. I climb in, and he directs me to the very back seat. I smash myself down between the seats, trying to get as low as possible. Dean climbs in after me, carefully sliding the door as close to shut as he can without latching it. He can’t risk the noise. 

He hunkers down next to me, sliding down as far as he can. 

We wait silently, the only sound our breathing. Mine is ragged, scared. His is even, calm. I swallow hard, and put my hand over my mouth in an attempt to mask the sound. I feel his hand on my leg, rubbing in a small circle, an attempt at calming me. The other is holding his gun, eyes trained on the door. That many Walkers, and being trapped in a small space, a machete wasn’t going to cut it. Still, I wrangle my hand behind me and pull out the knife he had given me when we left the bunker. I hold it in front of me with both hands, and it settles some of my nerves. I offer him a nervous smile, which he returns. He takes back his hand, switching the gun from right to left, and I feel him shift as he braces his right arm against the floor, ready to move.

I can hear them now, a low groaning, the slight drag of feet. I close my eyes, and try to shrink further into the floor. I can feel Dean’s breathing next to me, still calm and even. I open my eyes and glance at him without turning my head. His eyes are glued to the sliding door. I can’t see it from my vantage point, but I can hear it: the slow grinding slide of a metal on its track. 

I look back to Dean, this time with a small jerky movement of my head. He shakes his head back and forth, an action so small it’s barely perceptible, his eyes never leaving the door. His thumb is stroking the side of the slide on his gun. Other than that, he is still. 

I close my eyes again, and listen to doors progress. It must be a third of the way open by now. I whimper low in my throat, and I feel Dean press himself into me, just slightly. The knife is rattling in my fingers. If he can feel me shaking, he doesn’t show it. 

Suddenly, there is silence, cut only by the sound of my own tortured breath. 

He waits ten more minutes before he begins to extricate himself from the floor, motioning for me to remain. He twists his head around, looking out the back window. 

He must not see anything that causes immediate panic, because he reaches his hand down to help me up. 

“They’re not out of eye sight yet, but they’re far enough,” he states.

I heave a sigh of relief, untangling my limbs from their cramped position. 

“The door…” I say.

Dean shakes his head. “I think one of ‘em got caught on it, just sort of pulled it with ‘em until it broke free.”

We take a quick break, downing a protein bar, then head off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life got busy! Sorry it took so long to get this posted, I'm working on the next but I have no idea when it's gonna get finished.

Day 12  
8:45 PM

The sun is beginning to set, but we’re on the outskirts of Topeka, and Dean is pushing on in the hopes of finding other people. 

“At the very least, we’ll find a nice ass house for the night,” he had remarked as we passed the large homes of what had apparently been Topeka’s Elite. 

I’m exhausted, we’ve been walking since 7. My feet ache, and my back is pinched under my pack. I groan and Dean throws me a look over his shoulder. Something in my face must show the end of my steam, because he slows to a stop, dropping his packs on the ground. 

His hand disappears into one of them, and comes out with a bottle of the water we had stopped to collect and filter earlier in the day. I take it greedily, collapsing onto my butt on the sidewalk in front of a massive colonial. 

“Looks like as good a place as any,” he comments as he stands in the street, nodding towards the behemoth behind me. 

I nod and try not to drink the entire bottle. 

I’m just reaching my hand out to give it back to him half full when there’s a crack that splits the air, and the bottle flies from my hand. In a fraction of a second Dean’s gun is out and aimed steadily down the street in the dimming twilight. I scramble to my feet, and drag my pack along the ground, searching for a car, a bush, a fence, anything to hide behind. As I struggle, I hear him call out.

“We don’t want any trouble,” he says loudly as he walks slowly, sideways, closer to the yard of the house I’m currently clambering across. “Just lookin’ for a place to sleep.”  
I make it to a giant oak tree halfway to the house and glance back at Dean for orientation. His stare is fixed to the East, so I throw myself to the West of the tree and pull my pack on top of my shaking knees as I draw them up to my chest. 

I close my eyes and count slowly to three. I open them again, and my gaze lands a few feet in front of me, just at the corner of the house. There’s a woman there, with a head full of the orangest curly hair I’ve ever seen. Her skin is pale, blemish free, but for the crooked red scar that runs the length of her left cheek from the corner of her eye down to the top of her lip. Even from this distance, her eyes are a bright vivid green. _Oh my god, she’s an actual carrot_ , I think, as fear starts to bubble up in my gut. 

I steel myself, and call out calmly, “Dean, put your gun down.” 

He ignores me, but I feel him moving steadily closer to me. 

“Dean,” I try, more firmly. “Put. It. Down.” 

He finally fixes his gaze on me, and then turns, following my line of sight. When his eye lands on the woman, now fully out in front of the house, currently pointing a rifle at my head, he lowers his weapon. 

She nods to the ground. 

He snorts. “I ain’t puttin’ this down,” he drawls, indicating his own gun. 

“Then we’re gonna have a big problem,” comes a voice from directly next to me, followed by the click of a gun being cocked. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath, barely audible. “Look, if I remember correctly, and I’m fairly certain I do as it was, oh, 25 seconds ago, you fired on us. Not the other way around.” 

The woman’s glance shifts quickly to her partner, then back to Dean. “Not a lie,” she responds with a raspy voice. 

“Right, so what d’ya say we all put our weapons down and have a chat like normal civilized folks?” Dean suggests. 

She slowly lowers the rifle, her eyes glued to Dean until a huff from her partner drags her gaze to him. 

“Put it down, Todd,” she states tightly. 

“Jenni,” the man starts. 

“Now,” comes the terse reply. 

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding as Dean helps me to my feet. As I’m brushing grass off my knees, he holds his hand out to the woman. 

“Dean Winchester,” he offers. 

“Jenni Walker,” she replies, shaking his hand. Dean cocks an eyebrow at her. “Yeah. Some call it irony, I call it divine providence.” 

Dean laughs at that, and gestures to me. 

“Caitlyn Bellamy,” I say, accepting her offered handshake. 

She still seems cautious, but she’s dropped some of the guard she had appeared with. She points to the man she had called Todd, now leaning against the giant oak. His blonde hair was probably clean cut a few months ago, but now it hangs in shaggy waves over his ears and collar. If he weren’t such a tool, I’d probably call him attractive. As it were…well. “That’s my nephew, Todd Karr.” He doesn’t respond, just keeps picking at dirt under his fingernails. Jenni turns back to us, “Where you folks headed?” 

I shrug, and look to Dean. 

“Nowhere in particular, honestly,” he begins, then briefly fills her in on the rest of our story, including a quick description of Sam and Cas. Jenni must have been used to the implied question by now, because she shakes her head. 

“Can’t say as that sounds familiar, sorry,” she answers. 

“Worth a shot, right?” Dean grins at her. 

“Just the two of you, then?” she inquires. After an affirmative response, she turns back to Todd. “Go check on Bryce, we’ll be right along.” 

Todd just stares at Dean in a clearly uninviting way, then turns on his heel without a word and wanders back down the street. 

Jenni shakes her head. “Sorry about him. He’s not the most friendly guy under the best of circumstances. Now that there’s so few people around he thinks he’s hot shit. Truth be told, most times I can’t stand him.” 

“Understandable,” I say. 

Jenni nods thoughtfully. “Just watch what you say. I’d hate to have saved your asses for nothin’.” 

Dean’s about to call her on the fact that what she had saved our asses from was them, but before he can, she continues as we head off in the direction Todd had gone. 

“Topeka’s been basically overrun since this whole thing started. First few weeks, there was a refugee camp set up downtown. Which was all well and good, til there was a security breech. Couple’a walkers made it in, took out most of the people inside. Lots of women, kids, elderly. Big ol’ herd now. For some reason, they never seem to leave. It’s like they’re stuck wanderin’ in a circle.” She shrugs. “We ever come out the back side of this, they’ll prob’ly have college courses on the Herd Psychology.” She laughs at her own joke, then goes quiet. 

I hesitate, only a little, before I ask, “If it’s so overrun, why are you still here?” 

She shrugs once more. “We’ve got a fairly decent setup, and a practically stellar food supply. It’s just the three of us, so we can keep pretty quiet when they wander through.” 

We stop in front of a two-story house that rivals the one we had stopped in front of earlier, and she waves us up the front porch steps. 

“The three of you?” Dean asks, just as the front door flies open. 

A boy, about 8, stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. 

Jenni smiles at him. “The three of us. This is Bryce.” 

The boy turns to us, his chubby cheeks that haven’t lost their baby fat pulled up in a sparkling grin. He’s barely tossed us a “hey” before he turns back to Jenni. 

“Can we go now?!” he asks her excitedly. Jenni shakes her head. “But you proooooomised.” 

“It’s too dark now, Bryce. But I swear, tomorrow.” 

“Hand to God?” he asks her. 

“Hand to God,” she replies, holding up her right hand like she’s being sworn into court. “Tomorrow, we’ll go check out that old Impala.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Day 13  
1:15 AM

 

I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling above me. 

I try not to fidget and bother Dean next to me. 

I know he’s lying there just as awake as I am, but neither of us has worked up the nerve to discuss it. 

On Bryce’s mention of an Impala, Dean had shot me a look that clearly said “don’t show your hand”, and I had obeyed. We had come in from the deepening darkness outside and spent a good hour making small talk with two of our hosts. Todd had gone off who-really-cares-knows-where. By the time Jenni had suggested turning in for the night, my nerves were so jangled that I could hardly drag myself up the stairs to the room we had been offered. 

I had been setting my pack on the floor next to the biggest bed I had ever seen when Dean had shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and raised his eyes to mine. I had met his gaze for a fleeting moment before my lip started to quiver, and I returned to my pack, digging aimlessly, if only for something with which to occupy my hands. 

We had readied for bed in silence, gone to bed in silence, and laid in silence for the better part of 2 hours now. 

Finally, I hear his voice, deep and rough, but smaller than I’ve ever heard it before. 

“It’s probably not…” he begins, trailing off. 

I continue my inspection of the ceiling, biting my lip. 

He goes on, “The odds of it being Baby. I mean they’re astronomical.” He pauses. “Hell, the kid probably doesn’t know his ass from his elbow when it comes to cars.”

He falls silent for a few minutes, and I wonder if perhaps he’s able to sleep now that he’s voiced the thought. He proves me wrong when he goes on, almost quieter than before. 

“Why would they have come here?” he whispers. 

“Maybe the warehouse was cleaned out,” I finally speak up. “Or there were too many Walkers.”

Dean huffs at this. “Sam knows better. He’d have come back to the bunker. He’d have…”

“Done anything if he thought it was going to help me,” I cut him off. “You know he would have done whatever he thought he had to.”

He’s silent at that, but I know that he knows it’s true. 

“We need to sleep,” I say quietly. “Tomorrow’s going to be…draining.”

He breathes a silent laugh, turns his head towards me and says “You gonna be able to sleep?”

I can feel his scrutiny in the dark, and my teeth worry my lip a little more. “Probably not,” I admit. 

I feel him shift, scooting closer to me in the giant bed. I take the offered solace, tucking myself under his arm. My face has barely touched his chest when the tears come. 

He doesn’t say anything, simply rests his chin on the top of my head, his hand stroking absently down my arm. 

 

Day 13  
6:00 AM

 

If sleep came last night, neither of us show the signs. 

My eyes are red, puffy and sore. 

Dean is gruff, bordering on surly.

We find Jenni in the kitchen downstairs, cooking oatmeal on a propane-fueled camp stove at the table. 

She regards us quizzically for just a moment before a smile slides over her features. Apparently the “too polite to ask” level of tact still exists in the apocalypse. 

I leave Dean to answer her questions (“How did you sleep?” she asks. “Just fine, thank you,” he responds) while I tuck into my breakfast. 

“I’m taking Bryce out today on a pseudo-supply run, outside the main fences that mostly keep the herd in check,” Jenni says. “You two can feel free to do whatever you…”

“We’ll tag along,” Dean interjects quickly, to which Jenni nods. 

“Sounds good then,” she replies. “Be ready in 15?”

We agree, and finish our breakfast.

 

Day 13  
8:30 AM

 

We’re standing at an intersection in a commercial area. There’s a 7-11 on one corner, a CVS on another. The other two are empty lots, a few cars scattered around on them. It’s obvious they’ve been picked through, their doors and trunks left open. 

Bryce and I are hunkered into the alcove of the entrance to the pharmacy, waiting for Jenni and Dean to scout the cross street and give the All Clear. 

I hear a quiet whistle, and offer Bryce my hand as we run to the opposite corner and join Dean. Jenni joins us a few seconds later, coming out from behind the 7-11. 

“Is it still there?” Bryce asks excitedly. 

Jenni smiles, then nods her head for us to follow her further down the street. 

We’re still three blocks away when I spot her, sitting askew, front end pointed in towards a hardware store. Like her brethren, the doors and trunk are open. Dean is behind me, so I see it before he does: a devil’s trap, gleaming white in the sun on the inside of the trunk lid. 

Before I have time to think about it, I push past Bryce in front of me, and take off at a sprint past Jenni. 

“HEY!” she shouts, reaching for my arm. 

I twist, yanking myself free, and run hell bent for the car. 

I skid to a stop ten feet away. I grunt as Dean barrels into my back at the abrupt stop. 

“Caitlyn,” he hisses in my ear, taking hold of my wrist. 

I bend at the waist, planting my free hand on one knee, gasping for breath, staring at the Impala. 

Jenni’s been at my side approximately half a second before she starts in.

“What were you thinking?! Just because we didn’t hear any Walkers doesn’t mean they aren’t here,” she growls. 

I turn my face up to her, tears filling my eyes, and her hard gaze turns questioning. She glances up to Dean, and I turn my attention back to the car.

“What the hell is going on?” I hear her grumble under her breath to Dean. He lets go of my arm as he replies, but his answer is muffled in my ears as I slowly approach the open rear passenger door. 

There’s a duffel in the backseat, open, rummaged through. 

_Sam’s._

I swallow over the lump in my throat and reach carefully into the car, pulling the bag closer to the edge of the seat. There’s really nothing inside, a few empty pieces of plastic packaging. I’m about to toss them aside when I see what’s written on them. 

_Morphine._

Whatever it was that lead them here, they had gotten the supplies. 

I’m about to turn to tell Dean just that when something on the floor of the backseat catches me eye. 

The hushed conversation going on between Dean and Jenni behind me turns to nothing but static in my ears as I lean down to pick it up.

“Dean,” I mumble. 

He doesn’t hear me.

“Dean,” a little more insistent, I start to shake

The static is getting louder. 

I hold it in my hands, shaking so badly that I almost drop it. 

“DEAN,” the word comes out of my mouth hysterical. 

Under the static, I can hear their conversation halt. 

“Caitlyn, what is it?” his voice cuts through. 

I turn slowly, raise my eyes to his face, and offer him a torn, bloodied trenchcoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any and all feedback is appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

Day 13  
8:40 AM

I feel like I’ve left my body, floating outside of the scene looking in, as I watch Dean’s eyes throw out a thousand different emotions as he takes in the coat currently shaking in my trembling hands. 

He mumbles something as he reaches out to touch it, gingerly, with one fingertip, as if he’s afraid it might crumble into a million little pieces of dust if too much pressure is applied. 

“Dean?” I say, but it comes out in a choked off whisper. 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he mutters, stroking his fingers over the material a little bolder now that it hasn’t dematerialized in front of him. “Doesn’t…”

I watch him, my eyes frantically searching his features for a sign that he’s not going to shut down on me. His eyes don’t leave the coat, but he clenches a handful of the fabric. 

The dried blood makes a crunching sound as his fist closes over it. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to shut out the sound. I feel him take the coat from me, open my eyes to find his closed. Crap.

My eyes dart over to Jenni. She’s standing, guarded, keeping Bryce behind her. She’s also looking back and forth between Dean and myself like we’ve grown two extra heads between the both of us. I’m about to explain to her when Dean speaks up.

“Can I have a minute?” His voice is quiet, none of its usual gravel and edge. He sounds like a child. It’s heartbreaking, and the thought of having to somehow drag him through this world and keep him alive without him in this state is terrifying.

I realize he’s looking at me, waiting of an answer. I nod, “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead. We’ll just be…” I trail off, but gesture to the front of the hardware store, where a busted out window has made it easy scavenging. 

I watch as he makes his way around the Impala and folds himself into the driver’s seat. 

I swallow back the tears, and turn to Jenni and Bryce. We walk in silence to the broken window. I wait until we’re inside, Jenni facing the rear, myself facing the front, Bryce exploring, before I offer her an explanation. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see her nod every so often in the side of my vision. 

It’s a few minutes before she speaks. “You asked me yesterday why we stay here, why we don’t move on.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t respond, simply wait quietly for her to continue when she’s ready. 

“My daughter. We got separated about a month ago. I can’t bring myself to leave that house. I keep thinking one of these days she’s gonna make her way back, and I won’t be there.”

I glance at her, but her face is blank as she watches Bryce collecting what few boxes of ammunition were still scattered about the store. 

“Every time that herd comes near, I find myself searching for her. I don’t know what good knowing would do, but…” Her voice finally catches, and she finishes quietly, “At least I’d know.”

I reach over, taking her hand, and we watch Bryce.

Day 13  
9:10 AM

It’s been 20 minutes, and Dean hasn’t moved from the front seat of the car. 

I motion to Jenni that I’m going out to check on him. 

She whistles to Bryce, who picks his way through the overturned shelves of the store back to us. 

“We need to get moving,” she says. 

I step back through the window into the sunlight, and turn to help Bryce through. 

“There was a stash of canned stuff in the convenience store last week,” Jenni mentions, nodding her head towards the 7-11 a couple blocks back. “You get him together, meet us there. 5 minutes.”

I watch them go for a moment, then return my attention to the Impala. At the open driver’s door, I squat down, a hand on Dean’s knee. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t seem to notice I’m there. 

“Dean?” I say softly. He doesn’t reply, just opens his eyes. There are tracks on his cheek, nearly dry now. 

I chew my lip, unsure what to say. Sure, Dean and I were on common ground in some ways. Sam and Cas were both missing, had both left home in this particular vehicle two weeks ago without a word since. But I’m not the one who’d just been handed her boyfriend’s blood-soaked clothing. 

I’m still contemplating what to say when I hear another whistle. I stand up, and can see Jenni and Bryce on the corner, waiting. I sigh, knowing there’s no way to finesse this. 

“We have to go,” I tell him. 

He blinks.

“We can take it with us,” I promise, reaching to take the coat from his hands. 

He grimaces. 

“Dean.”

“It’s not the coat,” he grinds out, like his mouth doesn’t want to let him speak.

It’s my turn to blink.

“Baby,” he says, quieter this time. “She won’t start.”

I turn my head back to Jenni. Even from this distance I can tell there’s a sour look on her face. 

“I can’t leave her here,” he whispers. 

My brain is churning, trying to come up with something, anything, that will snap him back. 

Turns out, I didn’t need to bother. There’s a Walker ambling down the street towards us. It’s missing an arm, but that doesn’t appear to be slowing it down any. 

I take a deep breath, hoping this is enough to get Dean back to our reality, and pull on his arm.

“We. Have. To. Go.” I say it as forcefully as I can without getting too loud. “Dean, they’re coming, and we need to be gone.”

Ol’ One Arm is close enough now that I can hear the ragged groaning. Shit.

I yank on Dean’s arm this time, and he gives, flying out of the car and into me, knocking us both to the ground. His shoulder digs straight into the center of my chest, sending a flare of white hot pain through me. I scrunch my eyes closed, biting down on my lip in an attempt to stop the scream that wants to tear out of me. I maneuver my arm between our bodies, and try to shove Dean off of me. I manage to turn my head, and in the space between the bottom of the Impala and the ground I can see Jenni and Bryce, their feet beating a path in the opposite direction. 

I don’t blame them.

Dean scrambles off of me, thrown into action, and I celebrate the tiny victory for a moment, until I realize he’s scrambling for the coat, which ended up a few feet from us as he had tumbled out of the car. 

This is up to me, I think. Awesome. We’re not fucked at all. 

In the melée, our friend has not only gotten closer, but more importantly, noticed us. She (I think?) ambles towards us, slightly faster now, her gait lopsided and swerving, and she’s **close**. Fifteen feet. I crawl towards Dean, grabbing his ankle. He doesn’t bother to shake me off. I yank the knife from his boot, swallow hard, and jump to my feet.

She’s on me in seconds, the decaying fingers of her one remaining arm pawing at my sleeve. I’ve never been this close to one of them, had them in my face like this, and the stench is worse than nauseating. I struggle with her, turning her towards the car in the hopes that I can gain the leverage needed to jam the knife into her rotten skull. With my left hand, I push her backwards, pinning her as best I can. Her gaping mouth chomps at me, and maggots fall from her face onto my arm. I wretch, but manage to pull my right arm back, knife poised, and jam it into her head with as much force as I can muster. 

Which was too much force. 

It catapults me forward, onto her, and we both hit the ground. I clamber away from her, far enough that her limbs aren’t touching me, and collapse. 

The pain in my chest has calmed, but only marginally, into a slow throb. I lay sprawled on my back, trying to calm my breaths into something resembling normal. It takes a few minutes, but it finally happens. 

I sigh, and pull myself off the pavement. I wonder to myself if I can even find my way back to the giant house Jenni had invited us into last night. Part of me doesn’t care. Part of me just wants to curl up on the ground next to the car and give up. 

I stand in front of him, and offer my hand. He looks at it for a moment, then up at me. I try to give him a smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a pained smirk. He takes my hand anyway, and I pull him up. 

He clutches Cas’ coat under one arm, and my dirty, gore soaked hand in the other, as we head off in the direction I had seen Jenni and Bryce go as they left us behind.


	8. Chapter 8

Day 14  
8:00 AM

Before I open my eyes, I know that it’s raining. I can hear the heavy drops slamming into the window. 

I stretch, groaning, feeling yesterday’s combat in every muscle. 

I turn onto my stomach, burying my face in the flannel that’s wrapped around me. I inhale, but all I smell is the shampoo that Jenni had loaned me yesterday. 

A quick glance to my left shows me an empty bed, and I jump up, immediately guarded, worried. 

Dean.

He hadn’t said a word the entire walk back to the house, which we eventually found after cluelessly stumbling upon the house where we had first met Jenni and making our way back from there. 

I had gotten him inside and left him sitting in the living room holding the trench coat while I sat with Jenni in the kitchen, going over what had happened.

She still didn’t seem guilty over leaving us behind. I still didn’t blame her. Truth be told, I’d have probably done the same for almost total strangers.

“We didn’t find much at the 7-11,” she’d said while I stared out the window, a mug of tea cradled in my hands. “I don’t think it’s worth it to go back.”

I nodded softly, my mind more on fixing Dean than finding food. 

She’d still been talking when I interrupted callously, “Is there somewhere around here that still has gas?”

Jenni had stared at me for a second, then hummed thoughtfully. “There might be,” she says. “But Caitlyn, do you really want to risk going back there?” Her eyes darted to the door to the living room where Dean was, as far as I could tell from the silence, still right where I’d left him. 

“I don’t know,” I’d sighed. “He sure as hell can’t go back, though. And I don’t know enough about cars to know if that’s even the problem.”

She’d been silent for a few moments, nursing her own tea. 

“I’ll send Todd out tomorrow, if it’s clear. He knows a thing or two.”

I had offered to go with him, but she’d shot me a look and a smile that said I’d be sorry. 

After finishing my tea, I had gotten Dean upstairs and into bed. He had remained mute, but compliant. No argument, no balking. He had stood in the center of the bedroom for a full minute before I had realized I was going to have to explain that he needed to get ready for bed. 

He had managed to accomplish that task on his own, but I still had to all but tuck him in, filthy trench coat and all. I sat in the cozy chair by the window, and had managed to keep my tears in until I was certain he was asleep. 

Two hours of crying later, I had crawled into bed and fallen asleep. 

And now, I’m tripping over my own feet, racing downstairs in a desperate search for my broken friend. I hear rustling from the kitchen, and head straight there. The second I’m through the door, I skid to a stop in my sock feet. I’m sure it would be comical, if it weren’t the zombie apocalypse and Dean wasn’t dead center of a nervous breakdown. 

Except, Dean isn’t dead center of a nervous breakdown. He’s dead center of the kitchen, showered, dressed, and scrubbing the counter for all it’s worth. Jenni is leaned against the opposite counter, across the island, a baffled half-smile on her face, coffee in hand. She glances to me, shrugs, tips her mug in greeting, and heads into the living room. 

I look around the room, and take it in. Not that it was dirty before, but it is nothing if not immaculate now. Knick knacks are straightened, dishes are put away, stainless steel is gleaming. 

I clear my throat, and his head whips around. His smile is blinding.

“Mornin’,” he says. 

“M-morning,” I stutter back. How is this the man I put to bed last night, I wonder. 

“You missed breakfast,” he says apologetically, still wiping at the countertop.

“That’s ok,” I reply carefully, trying to decide how delicately to tread. 

I take the kettle from the useless electric stove and move to the sink to fill it with water, throwing out (what I’m hoping is) a very non-chalant “How are you?”

“Me? M’fine.”

He seemed surprised at the question. 

I set the kettle on the propane camp stove and settle back to wait for the water to heat, eyeing him. 

He eyes me right back, waiting for one of us to finally become uncomfortable enough to fill the silence.

I break first. 

“Yesterday…last night…you just seemed,” I start. 

He finally stops cleaning, lifting his head to look at me. “Caitlyn, I’m fine. I needed to…I don’t know, process or something. But it’s done, it’s processed, it’s fine, **I’m** fine.” He sighs. “Now drop it. Please.”

I turn my stare to the kettle, murmuring my acceptance to, in fact, drop it. I want to ask where he put the coat, as it wasn’t obviously visible in the bedroom on my flight to find him, and clearly wasn’t in his spotless kitchen. I assume that, pertaining to “dropping it”, asking would be a bad idea, so I remain silent, waiting for the whistle. 

Day 14  
1:30 PM

The first glimpse I get of Todd since our meeting two days ago is his back, with a rifle slung across it, marching down the street with purpose. 

I’m surprised he agreed to go, as he really wasn’t getting anything out of it, and he seemed the type to demand a scratch in return.

I watch him through the dining room window until I can’t see him anymore, then decide it’s probably time to let Dean know what he’s doing. 

I find him in the living room, stretched out on the sofa, flipping through Cosmo, of all things. 

He looks up when I come in the room, smirking.

“These sex tips, do women actually believe this crap?” 

I grab the magazine from his hands, and toss it onto the coffee table, rolling my eyes. 

“Of all the things in this house to read, you chose that?” I laugh.

He shrugs, then side-eyes me. 

“You’re hovering,” he states. 

I sigh, lowering myself to the other end of the couch, and he slides his feet back toward himself to make room. 

“Baby,” I say quietly to my lap. 

“Hey now, I know we’ve spent the last two weeks together, but pet names?” he snarks.

“Stop it,” I reply, as firmly as I can manage and not sound like a total bitch, and his gaze drops to his own lap. “Baby, Dean.”

He swallows audibly, but seems otherwise stable. I take it as a sign to continue. 

“Todd is on his way to check, to see if…if something’s wrong, or if we just need gas, or…”

He nods tersely, and I already know why. 

“We didn’t want…” I pause, take a breath. “I didn’t think it would be a good idea for you to go back there.” He starts to react, and I slide myself around on the couch to face him. “No, listen to me, please. Yesterday, the way you reacted, you…That can’t happen again, Dean. It can’t.” His eyebrows scrunch together, but he stays quiet, listening. “I’m no good out there by myself. I don’t know what I’m doing, and if you go all useless on me again, I’m gonna get us both killed.”

“Useless?” he scoffs.

“Yes, Dean, useless. Do you even remember? You sat there, staring at nothing, while a Walker came at me, at us.”

“I remember, I’m not a fucking idiot, Caitlyn. You took care of it, knife to the head, no problem.”

I jump up from the couch, tears springing to my eyes. “It was **one** , and she had **one arm** , Dean! And I **barely** managed to “take care” of her. What if there’d been more? What then??”

“Then I’d have **helped you** , Jesus, Caitlyn! You think I’d have just let Walkers attack you??”

“Dean!” I shout. “You **did**! That’s exactly what you did!”

“It was one Walker, if I’d thought you couldn’t handle it…” he trails off. 

“No, no way,” I say, starting to cry in earnest. “You were completely useless, and you can’t even admit it. You’re completely bent over this trench coat, and your car, and you were a useless mess, and you **left** me. You checked out, and you left me.” I can’t stop the tears, and they begin to flow hard and fast. “And Sam may or may not be out there somewhere, and his shirt doesn’t smell like **him** anymore, it just smells like me, and it was all I had left, you and that shirt, and you **left** me.” I hiccup, effectively stopping my rant long enough for him to interject, but he doesn’t. 

I don’t chance a look at him, choosing instead to inspect the pattern of the carpet at my feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

I take a deep breath, regaining my composure a bit. 

“Me too,” I mutter. 

“No. Caitlyn, I…”

I look up at that, the falter in his voice. 

“I mean, I’m sorry. For yesterday. You’re right. That coat… **Cas’** coat…it threw me. And then the car. I just…I left you. You’re right, and I’m sorry.” 

I nod, and whisper, “Ok.”

“We’re gonna have a problem though,” he says. 

I finally look up, questioning. 

“If that dickbag thinks he’s driving my Baby **anywhere**.”


	9. Chapter 9

Day 14  
5:15 PM

It’s eerily quiet on the street as I walk. The only sound my breathing, and the soft falls of my sneakers on the pavement. Todd is a few steps ahead of me, but his feet don’t seem to make any noise. 

He’d gotten back about half an hour ago, having determined the Impala was just out of gas. He’d managed to siphon a couple of gallons from the cars in the area, either in neighboring garages or abandoned in the street.

Dean had argued that he should be the one to go back with Todd and get her. It didn’t take much convincing on my part to get him to agree that was probably not the best idea. As much as he apparently hated the idea of me driving his car, he was aware that we couldn’t risk another episode like yesterday.

We’ve been walking for about 15 minutes, and I can see the sign for the 7-11 up ahead. 

I hear the tell-tale groan of a Walker, and slow my steps. Todd turns to me, annoyed.

“Keep moving, they’re contained.”

I wrinkle my brow in confusion, but continue to follow him. 

As we pass the convenience store, I realize where the noise is coming from. Through the windows, I can see them. A dozen, if not more, pounding and scratching at the glass. The door is held closed by a two-by-four slid through the handles. It’s only a matter of time until they find the weak point, and then they’re free.

Where the hell did they all come from, I think. Jenni had told us the herd never ventured much further than the makeshift fence some of the last hold-outs had built two streets over from the house we currently occupied, which meant that there usually weren’t more than a few stragglers in this part of town at any given moment. So how were there now twelve or more of them trapped in the 7-11?

A few moments later, and we’re standing at the Impala. I start closing the doors that had been left open as Todd removes the gas cap from the rear of the car and starts to fill it. I spare a glance at Sam’s duffel in the backseat, and for a moment the full weight of missing him hits me. 

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them, and in the corner of my vision realize that Todd is no longer at the back of the car. I open my mouth to call for him, but before a sound can come out, something is shoving me into the backseat. 

“HEY!” I shout, only half muffled into the seat. 

I feel even pressure across the back of my neck, and breath hisses into my ear. “You may wanna shut up, unless you wanna draw some more of those things.”

For a second, I think he’s protecting me, that a Walker has wandered into the street. And then his hand is in my shirt, and I know. I know exactly what is happening.

I gasp a breath, trying to shove myself off the seat with as much leverage as I can manage, but he’s too heavy, and simply applies more pressure on my neck. 

My knife, I think, and wriggle my arm between us, but he figures it out before I have a chance to get a grip on it. I hear it hit the pavement wherever he threw it. 

He’s still struggling with my shirt, and I feel a hysterical giggle bubble in my throat like vomit. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention his ineptitude, but the rational part of my brain insists that would be a bad idea. 

Instead, I choose to kick like a woman crazed. It doesn’t appear to hurt him, so much as confuse him. 

He’s grumbling at me to hold still through clenched teeth, and for just a moment I think that I’m winning, that he’s going to give up and I can run. I’m convinced that I’ve done it. And then his fist lands on the side of my head and everything goes wonky. 

I’m dizzy, even though I’m not moving. I know that he’s frantically removing my clothes, more so because I can feel the air on my skin than because I can see or feel what he’s doing. 

I feel his weight shift, and it allows me to lift my head the slightest bit. The door on the other side of the car is still open, and through it I can see them. Three of them, headed our way. 

“Todd,” I groan. 

I’m fairly certain his response is “shut up”, but I’m not sure. My ears are ringing. 

I reach back, raking my nails down his arm.

He hisses, but I’ve gotten his attention. He checks his arm, then goes back to fumbling with his pants. 

If this weren’t a situation I was pretty sure was going to end in very gruesome death, I’d have laughed at it. A man so intent on assault that he doesn’t hear the monster coming. Poetic? Something.

I lay still, coiling my energy like a spring, watching their progress, keeping my mind on where exactly Todd’s hands were. I have a very tiny window of escape, and it’s looming quickly. 

The second I feel him shift his weight again, I lunge for the open door at the same time kicking my feet back. I feel them connect, and his grunt confirms the target.  
My momentum sends me tumbling onto the street, yoga pants around my knees. I yank them up as best I can, and jump to my feet. Todd is laying across the backseat, panting and holding his stomach.

“You bitch,” he breathes, climbing his way out.

I don’t waste time on a retort, and turn to run. 

I can hear Todd behind me, but he’s slowed down from the foot to the gut. 

I’m about ten feet past door to the 7-11 when something pelts me in the back of the head, and I trip. 

My vision is cloudy, now from the punch to the face and the rock to the head, and it’s hard as hell to get up. 

His hand is on my ankle when I hear it. A loud, drawn out “CRACK”.

Time is up on the convenience store door. They pour into the street, a jumble of rotting limbs, tripping over themselves to get to us. 

Todd is the least of my concerns now. 

I slam my foot back into his face, dragging myself off the pavement, and I run.

I convince myself that looking back is nowhere near being in my best interest, so I don’t. I shut out every sound but my own breathing, labored and painful in my ears, and try to concentrate on getting back to the house. 

I see the turn (“The purple house, you can’t miss it, it’s so garish,” Jenni had told me just a little while ago), and take it without slowing my pace. 

My mind wanders a bit now, and I start to do the math in my head. Fifteen minutes to walk to the car, fifteen minutes back to the house. He’d been gone for the better part of 3 hours. How long did it take to determine a car was out of gas? My guess is not more than a few minutes. 

Had he purposely put those Walkers in that store? It seems like a stretch. How would he know that I’d manage to get away from him? And that the board would break just at the right time? 

I’m still running at full speed when I hit the lawn where Bryce and Dean are tossing a baseball back and forth, Jenni keeping an eye out with a shotgun from the porch.  
I collapse on the steps, panting, trying to explain, but I’m breathing too hard. 

All three are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, and it occurs to me that I’m sprawled on the front porch in my bra, blood trickling from the back of my head. 

“They’re coming!” I hear Todd rasp as he arrives.

Before Dean can turn towards him, I shoot him a look that I hope clearly conveys “TODD IS A BAD DUDE”. My message must get across because in the blink of an eye, Dean’s pulled his gun from his back and has it aimed and ready. 

“Hey!” Jenni shouts as Todd slams to a stop, raising his hands above his head. 

“No time,” Todd heaves, “They’re coming.”

“Tell them why,” I manage to say. 

Todd glares at me.

All eyes turn to him, questioning. 

Jenni’s glance darts back and forth between the two of us for a second, and I can see understanding dawn her face.

She sets her jaw, and says “Tell me you didn’t.”

Todd says nothing, just continues to glare at me with his hands in the air. 

“Didn’t what?” Dean demands.

“Todd,” Jenni pleads.

“Todd didn’t do a lot of things,” I say, sarcasm dripping. “He didn’t lock a bunch of Walkers in the 7-11, who didn’t manage to get loose, and he certainly didn’t try to assault me in the back of the Impala.”

Dean’s jaw clenches so hard I can almost hear it.

Jenni lets out a quiet “Oh Todd, no.”

“Bryce, go inside,” Dean says.

Jenni’s head whips up at that, and she stares at Dean. The look on his face must deter her from argument, because she reiterates the command.  
“Go in the house, Bryce. To your room.”

The front door shuts, and it’s quiet in the yard. In the distance, I can barely make out the groaning. They’re getting closer. 

“S’that true?” Dean asks. “What Caitlyn just said?”

Todd’s gaze shifts from me to Dean, then back.

“Don’t look at her, you look at me, and you answer me. Now,” Dean states.

“It’s not like she says, I swear,” Todd says. 

“Is. It. True.”

Todd’s eyes fly from Dean, to me, to Jenni.

“Don’t look at them,” Dean growls. “You’re answering to me now.”

I move closer to Jenni, hovering just behind her. She takes my hand and squeezes, but her eyes don’t leave the two men in front of us. 

Todd shifts his weight, moving slightly to the left. Dean counters him.

With a sigh, Todd says “The walkers in the store…”

Dean cuts him off with a mirthless laugh, and says “I don’t give a good god damn about the Walkers right now.” He’s moving closer, the barrel of the gun inches from the man’s face. “Did you put your hands on her?”

The word “yes” has barely crossed his lips when Dean shoots him.


	10. Chapter 10

Day 14  
6:05 PM

A strangled sound escapes my mouth as the back of Todd’s head disintegrates into a fine red mist behind him. He remains standing for what seems like an absurd amount of time before he crumples to the ground. I stare. 

I feel a hand on my arm, tugging me towards the house. I tear my eyes away from the body in the front yard, my gaze landing on Jenni’s face, tight lipped and white, as she drags me inside. 

“We don’t have time,” she says matter-of-factly. “If they weren’t on our trail before, they definitely are after that gunshot.”

Dean starts to apologize, and she cuts him off.

“Don’t. We can hash it out later. For right now, grab what you need, and let’s go.”

Dean hustles up the stairs, leaving me standing in the foyer alone. I’m shaking, either from the stress of the past hour finally catching up with me, or from seeing someone (Walker’s notwithstanding) shot dead in front of me. I’m not sure just yet. 

I continue to stand there while Jenni and Bryce scuttle around me, grabbing this and that. 

Dean comes thundering down the stairs, carrying all of our bags, Sam’s button down shirt draped over one arm. He tosses my bag at me, his face grim.

“You can fall apart later, ok? Right now, just focus on getting out of here,” he says as he shoves my arms into the sleeves of the shirt. “Button.”

I do so, then secure my grip on my bag, and start to follow Jenni out the back door when I panic. 

“Wait!” I yell, running for the living room.

Dean doesn’t have time to follow before I return, my copy of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” clutched in my hands. Dean rolls his eyes, and pushes me out the door. 

 

Day 14  
6:25 PM

I’m not sure when they decided on a plan of action, but when we left the house, we skirted through the backyard of the house behind the home we were leaving onto the opposite street. 

We move silently, quickly, Jenni and Dean both with weapons drawn. Dean had shoved his knife into the back of my pants, and I can feel it there. The handle digs into my skin, and I try to focus on that instead of the situation. 

We make a few turns, each time with either Jenni or Dean checking the path before allowing myself and Bryce to follow. 

A few stores come into view at the end of the street, and it dawns on me where we are. The adrenaline has overshadowed how long we’ve been running, but I realize it’s been a while because it suddenly occurs to me that we’re on the opposite side of the set of businesses that make up this part of town.

I hold back a choked sob when I see the Impala, and beyond it the wide open doors of the convenience store.

Dean holds up a hand, and the four of us stop moving. He turns back, one finger over his lips. There’s Walkers, not many, maybe six, hovering between Baby and the 7-11. 

We nod. 

He points to himself, then the car. 

Anxiously, we watch him jog to the driver’s side door, and slide inside. 

I close my eyes, silently praying to anyone that might be listening. 

Jenni’s eyes dart to me, and in that small look I understand what she wants to say: if the car doesn’t start on the first shot, we’re toast. 

We both turn our gazes back to the Impala, holding our breath. 

There’s a brief sputtering sound, and then nothing. 

Dean’s curse floats to us.

The sputtering again, and then the incredibly loud sound of an engine roaring to life. Somehow, we’re able to hear a joyful “That’s my girl!” over the noise. 

He backs up fast, throwing the car into gear before it’s even stopped moving. He barely stops as we jump in, Jenni shotgun, Bryce and myself in the back. 

 

Day 14  
7:00 PM

Jenni gives directions. Turn here. There. We wind our way through the suburbs, and end up in a wide open parking lot, a chain link fence cutting it down the center. It stretches across the roads on both sides of the lot, no end in sight as it passed between buildings. 

“Quarantine fence,” Jenni says quietly. 

“Jenni,” Dean says. 

“No,” she interrupts. “Don’t apologize. If I had…”

She seems to choke up a bit, and I try to focus on moving my few belongings into Sam’s duffel. I’d grabbed it immediately when I got in the car. 

“I should have told you,” she says on a sigh, turning in her seat so she can see both Dean and myself. “I just thought that with things the way they are, he would behave himself.”  
She must notice my glance at Bryce, because she says, “It’s fine. Bryce is aware of Todd’s…shortcomings.”

Dean snorts, but leaves it at that.

“He hurt my mom,” Bryce pipes up. “Did he hurt you too, Caitlyn?”

His face is sad, big brown eyes looking up at me. He looks terrified. 

“No, sweetie, I’m ok,” I try to reassure him. “He tried, but I’m ok.”

He takes a deep breath, nods, then declares himself tired, curling up on the seat and closing his eyes.

Somehow, I don’t think sleep will come as easily to the rest of us. 

 

Day 14  
9:15 PM

Bryce has been asleep for about an hour and a half, the latter half of which had been filled with Jenni and Dean quietly plotting out the rest of the night. 

They had decided that we should stay put, parked under a tree, about midway between the edge of the parking lot and the quarantine fence bisecting it. 

I stare out the passenger window from my spot behind Dean. I had tried to turn my back to the door and lean against it, to stretch out as much as I could without disturbing Bryce, but the paranoia made it impossible to sit still. So I sit facing front, my head turned almost completely to the right, staring into the darkness that is downtown Topeka. I slide my left hand over the ugly red scar on my breast. It’s mostly healed, but I can see the redness where scabs had been torn away in the scuffle with Todd. 

Every few minutes, my eye catches what I think might be movement, but it’s fleeting, and disappears before I can determine if it was real or just my mind. 

It’s gotten cold, and I occupy myself with shrugging my arms back into Sam’s shirt. I’d removed it on the jog, and tied it around my waist. As I fasten the last button, I turn my gaze back to the cityscape. This time, I know for certain that the movement is there.

I can see them now, a group of them, shuffling in tandem. There must be over a thousand. They’re funneling out from a narrow alleyway, slowly flooding a small park with a long-empty fountain at the center. Some of them bump into the fountain, falling directly into the dry basin. They begin to crawl, until those behind them fall as well. Soon, there’s a mass of wriggling, pissed off Walkers writhing and rolling at the center of the herd.

I lose sight of the fountain as the rest of them move continually forward, directly towards the fence about 50 yards to our right.

I must have made some sound, because Dean shushes me, and Jenni murmurs quietly, “It’s alright.”

She’s right, as they approach the fence, there’s a slow shift to their left, and they resume their ambling along the fence line, not quite touching it. 

I barely breathe. Seeing this many of them in one place, I’m terrified. 

Dean breaks the silence and asks, “Have they done this before?”

But before Jenni can answer, she slumps down, and a low moan escapes her. 

Dean shifts in his seat, tossing a glance at me that clearly demands to know what the hell is going on. I give him a Fuck-if-I-Know shrug, and turn back to Jenni. She’s still moaning, only it’s getting louder, and more despairing. 

I lean forward and touch her shoulder gently, “Jenni? What is it?”

She shakes her head back and forth, her red curls bouncing violently back and forth. 

I glance back at Dean, just as baffled as before. 

Dean opens his mouth to try a new tactic, when Jenni says, very softly, “Do you see the girl in the blue sweater?”

We both follow her gaze, and quickly land on a Walker along the fence wearing a ragged blue sweater with a grotesquely dirty kitten on the front of it. Her sneakers look like they may have once been a bright pink, but now they’re mostly covered in dirt and gore. She can’t be more than five. 

“Who is she?” Dean asks, barely a gruff whisper. 

I swallow thickly, having already drawn my own conclusion. 

Jenni presses her fingers to the window as she watches the child pass, and breathes out, “My daughter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome, Kudos are appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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